


At the Confluence of History and Hope

by Callioope



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of angst, A little bit of fluff, Ahsoka plays travel guide, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cappadocia, F/M, Istanbul, Jyn misses her mother, Luke demonstrates typical Skywalker shortsightedness when it comes to heights, Mutual Pining, The Rebelcaptain Food Travel AU, Turkey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callioope/pseuds/Callioope
Summary: The next episode of the rebelcaptain food travel AU, set in Istanbul and Cappadocia, Turkey!Jyn confronts ancient memories she thought she’d properly buried, learns a little more about Cassian’s history, and is forced outside her comfort zone. Plus some mutual pining.





	At the Confluence of History and Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It’s been ages since I’ve posted! I’ve just returned from my own romantic travel adventures and I am so ready to dive back into writing rebelcaptain. What better way to ease back into then more travel? (Heh, okay, it’s a little harder than it may sound to write about travel when you’re exhausted. ANYWAYS!)
> 
> Special thank you to Moonprincess92 for organizing this and to allatariel for all her wonderful help!!! & of course shout out to my awesome husband for sharing his culture with me, looking this over, and always taking me on fantastic adventures.
> 
> I am just tad late, so: I am posting this now, I’ll post references later, including pics & links of all landmarks and food mentioned.
> 
> [EDIT 12/26: I set up an [album](https://photos.app.goo.gl/kfWMmqKjy1xkGPxt6) of our photos from our trip, as well as a [collage](https://photos.app.goo.gl/huUhU7XP5oEmy7BP7), for visual references, if you would like! Sadly it's places only, no food, because unlike Cassian, Jyn, and the rest of our gang here, my husband and I were very bad about documenting our trip properly. I am still working on preparing some proper visual references for the food, stay tuned!]

This is the view of early-morning Istanbul:

Red-tile roofs top white and beige and yellow buildings crowded together along sloping streets; distant gray skyscrapers approach on the horizon. The Bosphorus hails them as it passes, continues south, slate-blue water cut with streaks of white foam as ships crowd the strait, until it meets the narrower Golden Horn, and together they pour forward, further south, past the blue minarets and white domes of Topkapi Palace, Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, to empty into the Sea of Marmara.

“Hey, what’s that over there!”

And then a flailing hand shoots out across the gray sky, obscures it all.

Rolling her eyes, Jyn shuffles along the Galata Tower observation deck ( _more like catwalk_ , she thinks, as it’s barely wide enough for one) and tries to salvage the shot by panning to the right, further up the Golden Horn, but Luke smacks her shoulder.

“No, look, there’s some kinda lighthouse out there.”

She relents and follows his finger with her zoom until she finds a tower squatting near the Asian side of the Bosphorus.

“Kız Kulesi,” Cassian says on her other side. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him reading from a sign on the railing. “The Maiden’s Tower.”

“I wonder why they call it that.” Luke wedges his foot between the curling metal bars of the railing, leans even further over the edge, and squints. “Is it even on an island? It just looks like it’s floating.”

“Whoa there, flyboy,” Kes says, coming round the bend of the tower. Their head of security dubiously eyes the railing before pulling Luke back, closer to the stone wall. “Let’s not go testing the accuracy of your name.”

“It’s safe,” Luke says, patting the solid wood beam topping the metalwork. “I’m not worried.”

Jyn rolls her eyes and follows Cassian around the curve of the tower, past a bulky stone balustrade that narrows the walking space even further, but also provides a little bit of buffer from Luke’s protests.

 _A small slice of peace,_ she thinks, stepping next to Cassian at the railing.

She’s content just to stand next to him, silently observing the city from their incredible vantage point, tracking the path they’ll be taking later. She skims over Karaköy, the neighborhood directly below them, alleys and shops leading down to water. Seagulls flock over Galata Bridge, flapping around the fish market, and across the bridge, another hill rises, topped with Süleymaniye Mosque.

Everything’s ancient, on that side of the water—palaces and mosques, monuments and walls, columns and cisterns, all of it collecting centuries of memories, worn smooth by the passage of millions of lives.

Just looking at it, the land and buildings that comprised what was once Constantinople, the heart of the Byzantine empire, stirs her own stagnant memories, of people and places and times she’s tried to forget, tried to plaster over like the walls in the Hagia Sophia.

“Is that where we’re going?”

Cassian’s voice jolts her out of it and her camera jolts, too. She’s focused on the Hagia Sophia now and that’s where he’s pointing.

“No, not today, at any rate.” She stops recording and turns to face him. “That’s the Hagia Sophia. Originally built as a cathedral in… I want to say the sixth century? Later converted into a mosque when the Ottoman Empire finally conquered Constantinople. Now it’s a museum. We’ll be heading that way.” She points to Süleymaniye. “Not even half as old, but—”

“Still old and impressive?’

She smiles. “Yeah. Still impressive.”

“Just like you,” Cassian says, so quietly she barely hears it, barely allows herself to admit he really said it. She grips her camera a little tighter, resists the urge to capture that look in his eyes, because she is not some swooning fangirl bent on documenting—whatever this is. “You know a lot about Istanbul,” he adds, louder, more casual.

She tries to shrug, like a liar, like she’s not thinking about Mama. “I lived here for a little while.”

“I’m beginning to think you know Europe better than me,” he says, grinning. “Maybe you should be the one hosting the show.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” she admonishes, glancing back past their balustrade barrier for Luke. “Someone might get ideas.”

Cassian chuckles. “Okay okay, if you don’t want to host—you could be our guide,” Cassian says.

“Nice try, but that’d still put me on camera,” she says, shaking her head. “I’d prefer to stay on this side of the lens,” she says. “Someone has to capture this view properly.”

“It is a good view,” he says, gazing across the water of the Golden Horn, towards the palace and mosques beyond.

“I wouldn’t mind a bit more sun,” Jyn says, lifting up her camera again. “Just for these landscape shots, anyways. You’ll look great, of course.”

She feels his stare fix on her, but doesn’t pause from adjusting several settings on her camera until her ears catch up with her mouth and she realizes what she said. “Oh—you know what I mean…the lighting…”

“Ah, of course,” he says, and when she finally glances back at him, he’s turned back to the view, his face unreadable. “Always working.”

In the twenty minutes they’ve stood at the top of the tower, vertigo hasn’t affected her—until now. Did she say something wrong? Is he angry? But _he_ was the one who—This toeing the line between professional and flirting exhausts her; suddenly she’s tripping over every word, every conversation that shouldn’t be this hard. Not that chit chat has ever come easy for her but—

His eyes are crinkling. He’s holding back a smile. It’s okay. He’s not offended. Or judging her work ethic.

She lets out a breath.

“You know you’re good looking,” she says, elbowing him, and he grins back at her and proves her statement. She marvels at the red creeping up his cheeks like sunrise— _did I really cause that?_

And then she remembers they’re not really alone.

“So, uh,” she continues, clearing her throat. “What’s next?” When he frowns in confusion, she adds, “I mean, on the work schedule.”

“Ah. Right.” Cassian glances down at the ground below, starts rehashing the itinerary Draven had provided earlier.

They slide into work conversation, schedules and lighting and what kind of food to expect, and even though she’ d started this conversation with the over-awareness of their colleagues, they all seem to fade away again.

_Jeez, Jyn, hold yourself together._

All this waiting, it's getting to her.

 _Not too much longer_ , she thinks, gazing out at the horizon again. _And the shoot will be over, and maybe we can interact like normal—_ not couples, the word is not couples— _like normal people._

Assuming he’ll still be interested… the self doubt comes automatically, a usual, knee-jerk reaction, because she’s nobody and Cassian is _Cassian Andor_ , of course, a gorgeous celebrity and a talented, smart, caring human being…

But at the same time, no one has ever looked at her like this, smiling and focused only on her, like they aren’t standing at the top of a beautiful building with a breathtaking view of the historical district of a centuries-old crossroad city…

What was she even thinking about again?

“Hey,” Cassian says, frowning and looking over her camera. “Luke—”

It happens so quickly she won’t piece together the full story until later; for now her memory only records a squawk, a white blur, and Luke’s startled “NO!” drawn out in the infinite space of a panicked second.

A seagull perches innocently on the balustrade right next to her head.

And from the other side, Luke moans, “My phone.”

#

“Approximately fifty-two meters,” Kay says, down on the ground, as they all examine the remains of Luke’s phone. “That’s one-hundred and seventy feet,” he adds, glancing at Luke. “Although since we weren’t at the _very_ top of the tower when you—”

“Thanks, Kay,” Cassian says. “We get the idea.”

Luke lets out a few choice words. “I’m screwed,” he says.

What Jyn has managed to piece together, in the five-minute scramble to the bottom of the tower, is that Luke had been reaching over the railing to try to sneak a picture of her and Cassian from around the balustrade when the seagull, Luke’s current arch nemesis, had swooped in and startled him, causing the devastating plummet of his most important work device.

Jyn doesn’t like to consider herself petty, but she can’t help but think _karma_.

“Draven’s going to be pissed,” Luke mutters.

Yeah, that’s a wrath she wouldn’t wish on anyone.

“I can probably talk him down.”

The crowd parts at the sound of an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

“Uh, hi, Ahsoka Tano, your guide to Istanbul!”

Luke’s face contorts in a series of expressions—from panic to confusion to joy—and then he reaches out and hugs their consultant.

“That seems excessive,” Kay says.

The guide returns the embrace, even lifts Luke off the ground.

“Was _this_ the traditional Turkish greeting Draven was talking about?” Kes mutters to Shara, who shrugs.

Luke pulls back from the embrace. “Aunt Ahsoka, am I glad to see you!”

“Hey there, Skykid. Mind introducing me to your coworkers here?”

“Oh, yeah, of course—” He runs through their names, pausing for everyone to shake hands. Jyn can’t help but think Ahsoka looks familiar, like someone she hasn’t seen in awhile. An old family friend? Was she an associate of Saw’s? But that doesn’t seem right. When Luke gets to her name, Ahsoka nods in acknowledgement, but gives no sign of recognition, and Luke moves on to end with Cassian.

“So how do you two know each other?” Shara asks, pointing between Luke and Ahsoka.

“Family friend,” Luke says, at the same time Ahsoka says, “I used to work with his father, a long time ago, on a production set far, far away.”

“You used to work with _Anakin Skywalker_?”

“Then what are you doing _here_?”

“Just like you said, we used to work together.” Ahsoka rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “So I’m quite familiar with Skywalker Shenanigans. Speaking of which, what’s Draven going to be pissed about, other than our delayed schedule?”

“It wasn’t _my_ fault, there was this bird—a rogue sea gull—”

Ahsoka arches an eyebrow.

“I did warn him about leaning over the edge—” Kes interjects.

Ahsoka sighs and nods dramatically. “Much like his father, the kid has no sense of self-preservation.”

“I’m right _here_ ,” Luke mutters.

“Go on,” Ahsoka says.

“He dropped his phone while attempting to sneak a picture of our star over here,” Shara says.

“Sneak?” Luke bristles. “It’s my _job_ to—it’s not like they were—it was a perfectly nice photo of Jyn doing her job while working with Cassian—I don’t have to justify myself!”

“Alright, alright,” Ahsoka says. “So you need a new phone. Not a big deal.” She tilts her head to the side. “Let’s reconvene with the general over there, before he self-destructs over his _schedule_ , and we’ll pick up a phone later today.”

“But how will I—”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes and hands over her own phone. “Drop this one and you’re on your own with Draven.”

“Got it. Thanks, Aunt Snips!”

“Come on.” Ahsoka leads the way like a leader in battle, striding towards the edge of the circular courtyard, where Draven lurks by a tree and exudes all facets of impatience, and Jyn actually feels encouraged.

It’s not like she has a grudge against Draven—or that she’s still worried about her job—or that she’s still grumpy about the briefing so early in the morning only the strength of Turkish coffee could keep them all awake— _or_ even that she thinks of him as an overbearing director who’s just flat out wrong about how to shoot an interesting show—but for whatever reason, she can’t help but think, walking in Ahsoka’s wake, that maybe they’ve found a useful ally.

#

And then Ahsoka concedes the first battle.

“You don’t think this will be too contrived?” Cassian asks.

“Oh, it’s entirely contrived,” Ahsoka says.

“I understand this is a typical Turkish greeting,” Kay says.

“And it is, but he’s trying to script what usually just happens naturally.”

“We’ve been trying a more natural, candid tone,” Cassian says.

“Yeah, Mothma mentioned that,” Ahsoka says.

“And you couldn’t talk him out of it?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes you have to lose a few battles to win the war. You all _were_ running late. Besides, Kay’s right, it is a normal greeting here. Draven insisted it’s as much a travel show as a food show. Just try to make it look natural. Like we’re just meeting. You used to act, right? You know what to say?”

“Hoşbulduk,” Cassian says, glancing back towards Jyn as if for support.

“Yeah, that’s good. Alright, let’s get this over with.”

A minute later, Cassian’s striding across the courtyard again. Jyn and Kay each raise their cameras to capture the overproduced moment from two angles.

“Hoşgeldiniz,” Ahsoka says, still earnest and welcoming. She kisses Cassian on each cheek and he supplies his practiced response.

“Hoşbulduk.”

Ahsoka grins. “Welcome to Istanbul.”

#

Draven appeased, real shooting begins. Ahsoka leads them towards a street cart within the courtyard.

“Your morning in Istanbul starts with this,” Ahsoka says, holding up a circle of twisted, toasted bread coated with sesame seeds. “This is simit.”

She offers one to Cassian, and Jyn focuses on the bread, the dark, crisper stripes contrasting with the exposed softer white.

“It’s like a Turkish bagel,” Ahsoka says. “Usually sold in street carts like this, or you’ll often see children selling them along the street.”

They each bite into theirs, and through her camera Jyn watches for Cassian’s reaction. Is it sad that she’s beginning to notice the variations in his expressions? She could gauge how good the food is on a scale from 1 to 10 based on the crinkles in his eyes, whether they close all the way, how much the corner of his mouth tilts up.

“Mmm,” Cassian says, “Still warm.”

He likes it, for sure, but nothing life changing. It is just bread, after all.

“What do you think?” Ahsoka says, already several bites into hers.

“A nice, crispy exterior, and soft and doughy on the inside.” He takes another bite. “Like a cross between a pretzel and a bagel. Just a little sweetness.”

“That’ll be the molasses,” Ahsoka says. “They dip the dough into molasses and then coat it with the sesame seeds. Of course, if that’s too subtle, you can always get it with nutella.”

“I think it’s great on its own,” Cassian says. “Warm and filling, for sure. And a perfect start for a cold winter morning.”

“Yes, and excellent for on-the-go eating,” Ahsoka says.

“Yes,” Cassian grins, “we do have places to go, don’t we?”

As they set forth down the slopes of Karaköy, the district nestled in the foothills below the tower, their trek leads them through narrow, sloping side streets, four- to six-story apartment buildings looming over them. Souvenir shops cluster together in the bottom of these buildings, selling all manner of items: tea cups and kettles, ceramic bowls and plates, shirts and skirts and shoes, necklaces, earrings, bracelets, purses, postcards, knick knacks—everything, in shop after shop, squished together. A little cafe cozies down in a corner, where the street suddenly veers right, right next to a clothing store literally called “Cosy.”

Before they turn the corner, Jyn turns back, points her camera up at the space between the rising apartments, and finds Galata Tower peeking between them, its blue tile, cone-shaped top pointing towards the barely visible sky, like it’s hailing them goodbye.

With a group of eight, they take up much of the limited space and are forced to pair off to fit on the busy street. Luke and Ahsoka take the lead, the social media manager happily chatting his aunt’s ear off. Kay quickly pulls Draven aside to talk shop, and Kes and Shara—well, they do what they always do.

And Jyn, lingering still at the corner, finds Cassian waiting for her. He smiles into the camera, warm and wonderful as always, his eyes crinkling. Behind him, an ad behind the “Cosy” shop that is literally just an arrow pointing down (to the front door of the shop) appears to be pointing at _him_.

_Yeah, I get it, universe._

She can almost see it, the end of their project. Just a few more countries after this, and then it wraps.

“Shall we?” Cassian asks.

She nods, still shooting everything she can of the street. It’s not beautiful, not historic, not like the tower, but it’s normal and everyday, and maybe it will wind up on the cutting room floor, but she’ll capture it just the same.

They continue down—the street is so slick and so steep, they don’t bother talking, spending most of their concentration in staying upright.

(Just once, Cassian loses his footing, his boot sliding on a patch of ice. Still holding her camera, Jyn catches him with her other hand, and for a brief, horrifying second, she thinks he’s going to take her down with him and they’ll fall in an awkward, embarrassing heap on the cold ground, her camera the real casualty, dismembered and scattered around them. But Jyn is graceful, even with her camera— _especially_ with her camera—and she rights them both. “Thanks,” he says, his soft smile way too close, and she backs away, paranoidly searching for Luke and his damn phone out of habit. But Luke _lost_ his phone today for that very reason, and besides, he’s still walking with Ahsoka up front, talking quietly but animatedly.)

The only time Luke _does_ take out Ahsoka’s phone—pausing, warily eying the skies—is to take a photo of a twisting double staircase that bends out and back like a figure eight with an extra loop.

“Kamondo Merdivenleri,” a plaque reads, right at the mid-level landing.

“It means the Kamondo Steps,” Ahsoka explains. “They’re kind of a local attraction.”

“The Kamondo Steps,” Kay reads from his phone, “were built in the 1870s by Abraham Salomon Kamondo in a unique mix of the Neo-Baroque and early Art Nouveau Styles. This curvaceous stairway is used by pedestrians to traverse one of Istanbul’s steepest hills while traveling to and from Galata Tower and the Karaköy Tram Station.”

“And yet _somehow_ that fails to capture their beauty,” Luke says, running to another part of the stairs to get a new angle.

“No, it’s perfect,” Cassian says. “A balance of art and practicality.”

Luke perches on the railing below. “They’re—kind of hard to photograph.”

“Try up here,” Jyn says. Through her lens, the steps fan down, meet their mirror, fan out and around again, a hypnotizing oscillation that, from her precise angle, almost feels like Escher’s staircases—if his imagery had more elegant swoops and fewer sharp angles.

Luke scurries back up the stairs. “Ohh, this is great Jyn.”

She can see his phone as he snaps a picture—perfectly candid, the rest of their group gazing back up with varying levels of delighted curiosity. And Cassian, closest, staring at her like—like she’s discovered something brilliant.

“They’re just stairs,” Kay mutters, turning back to Draven.

The rest of the walk seems a little less magical, after that. Just congested streets and more shopping, the buildings a little more modern, the streets a little wider, until they reach a main thoroughfare.

At last, the buildings break apart.

“This is Galata Bridge,” Ahsoka says.

Jyn pans along the side of the bridge, catching its two levels, the fisherman lined up along the edge, and, in the distance across the way, several squat blue domes, a few thin minarets.

“It’s the last bridge spanning the Golden Horn,” Ahsoka explains, “that’s the name of this little inlet—that leads into the Bosphorus over there. What you see across the bridge is part of Old Istanbul—ancient Byzantium, Constantinople—where you’ll find the Hagia Sophia, Blue Mosque, Grand Bazaar. There’s plenty to see, but we’ll save most of it for tomorrow. Today we’ve got the Spice Bazaar—and of course, the bridge itself. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Ahsoka leads them across heavily trafficked streets, down a set of stairs, and into a mall area, full of souvenir shops—that turns out to be the underbelly of the bridge. The halls open up to continue outside, along the edge of the water. A break in the middle to allow passing ships forces them up a staircase, back to the top of the bridge, and they continue along on this level, passing fisherman with plastic buckets full of fresh caught fish.

When they reach Eminönü, the neighborhood directly across the bridge, Ahsoka and Draven pause to argue about directions.

“It’s a steep uphill walk from here,” Ahsoka insists, as Jyn comes within earshot. “Who wants a snack?”

They all clamor for food, and Draven is defeated by democracy and growling stomachs.

Without a second glance at him, Ahsoka grabs Cassian and heads down another set of stairs, towards the river.

In the shadow of the bridge, along the edge of the river, a series of restaurants elbow against each other, a jumbled assortment of seats and shade and people all crammed together.

“This one,” Ahsoka says, nodding and gesturing for Cassian to continue forward. “You next, Jyn,” Ahsoka says. “We’ll be right behind you.”

She follows close behind Cassian, pushing their way through the dense collection of stools and tables, until they reach the small sales table in the back. Behind him, a boat bobs in the current, two chefs grilling rows and rows of fish over two large grills.

Instinctively, Jyn raises her camera to record it all: the workers unfazed by the gentle sway of the ship, the sizzling fish, the salesperson reaching across the water to collect each order. And of course, she records Cassian placing his own order.

Sandwich in hand, he finally looks over and notices her filming. He’s only surprised for a second before transitioning effortlessly. “This is balık ekmek,” he says. Ahsoka must have explained on the way, Jyn guesses. “Literally ‘fish bread.’ As you can see, it’s a sandwich of grilled fish, onions, and lettuce. They cook it on these boats and hand it across the water.”

Jyn sweeps over the water again, towards the grills on the boat, and as she does so one of the cooks waves at them to come aboard.

After a quick introduction—apparently, one of the chefs recognizes Cassian’s name—Cassian launches into interview mode to learn how the whole operation works.

“Thank you,” Cassian says. “So this is where they prepare all the food. They catch the fish, grill it here, and as you can see, they have the lettuce and onions all ready to go. They put it all together and they hand it across the water, to the salesmen over there.”

“I think we’ve got to eat it now,” Jyn says, pausing her camera.

“Yes, go eat, you’ll like it!” the cook waves them off, and they thank him again before joining the rest of the crew, who thankfully have scouted out seats.

“You like it?” Ahsoka says, grinning.

“It’s very cool,” Cassian says, tearing into his sandwich. They all wolf down their food, all thankful for Ahsoka’s insistence on stopping, and return to Draven with renewed vigor.

Which is very important, considering the steep trek uphill Jyn knows waits for them.

But first: the Spice Bazaar.

It’s literally right at the end of the bridge, across the street from where they’ve gotten lunch, but the messy interchange—full of barricades and speeding cars—convolutes their progress somewhat.

Jyn doesn’t necessarily mind the delay.

She’s the last one to enter.

She hesitates, standing in the vast, crowded space before the entrance. It looms over her: a two-story building, the first floor featuring three arches, side by side, the second floor topped with three blue domes.

She stood here once before, hand warm in Saw’s, staring up at the foreign arrangement of letters in white print on a red background. She points her camera at them now, as if it somehow helps to view it behind a lens.

“Mısır Çarşısı,” the sign above the door reads. “Egyptian Bazaar.”

Cassian reappears at the door, “Hey, come on,” he says, “there’s sweets inside.”

She presses pause. _Yeah_ , she thinks, _that’s what he promised, too._

“Jyn?” He comes over to her, places a hand on her shoulder, and still, frustratingly, she has to fight the urge to glance around, to make sure Luke or anyone else isn’t watching. But she knows they’re not, can easily imagine the crew’s absolute _delight_ as they sort through colorful bins of Turkish delight, powdered sugar dusting their noses.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says too quickly, and he lets her know that _he_ knows she’s lying with just a look. She sighs. “I…”

“Saw?” he asks quietly.

“It was just after Mum passed,” she says, and the wind shifts a little, blowing cold air off the water. Cassian rubs her shoulder. “She used to buy me Turkish delight, and Saw thought…”

She shakes her head.

“You don’t have to come inside.”

She snorts and looks down at her feet. “And trust Kay to film candy?”

Cassian chuckles. “I can wrangle him, if you need—”

“No, it’s fine.” She looks up again and steels herself. “Sugar’s not _that_ scary.”

He grins, his hand tracing down her arm. He squeezes her hand. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, as long as you’re with me.”

“All the way,” he says.

In any other context, she’d probably find this moment sickeningly sweet, but it’s hard to think much of anything with Cassian’s eyes watching hers, his hand still hovering near hers, just brushing their fingertips like they think they’re really fooling anyone at at this point.

And they enter together, assaulted by saffron and cinnamon and _Mama sharing foreign sweets on Christmas…_

“Someone’s got to explain to me the appeal of this stuff, anyways,” Cassian says. It’s a horribly calculated strategy of distraction, of focusing her on what’s _good_ , and it’s also horribly effective.

Besides, the spice bazaar is just _fun_ to film: the arched ceiling, white paint striped with brown supports; elaborate lamps; and endless patches of color, every shade imaginable, whether sweets or spices. She pans across heaps of Turkish delight: rosewater, orange, lemon, mint; she lingers over mounds of curry, paprika, saffron, of spices labeled simply as “salad spice, meat spice, fish spice;” she finds tea and dried flowers, and endless arrays of baklava, cut in all shapes: squares, diamonds, circles, cylinders, full of all different kinds of nuts, but mainly pistachio.

It’s essentially a very large collection of candy shops, and the crew spreads out like gleeful children.

There are other items, too, jewelry, lamps, pottery, rugs, and various other souvenirs, but of course they focus on the food and specifically Cassian’s first taste of Turkish delight.

“So you can get it with or without nuts,” Jyn explains, as they stand in front of a stall. “If you want nuts, there’s pistachios, hazelnuts, or walnuts.”

“Just like baklava, then?”

“Yeah, they use those in baklava, too” she says. “As I’m sure you remember. So the gel is usually flavored with rosewater, orange, or lemon.”

“What’s the green?”

“Mint.”

“Ah, perfect, I’ll take the mint after that fish,” he says.

“No, try the rose.”

They spend several minutes, trying all the flavors and spreading powdered sugar _everywhere_. The shopkeeper seems all too keen to accommodate them, giving them more samples than even is probably typical here, and when they’ve finally finished, Jyn reaches for her camera.

“I, uh, don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Cassian says, and she turns to find _Kay_ —traitorous Kay!—pointing his camera directly at them, probably close enough to pick up the sound. Had she just been that oblivious, eating candy with Cassian, that she hadn’t noticed him?

“You should have told us you were shooting,” Jyn says, trying to walk the balance of hastily brushing powdered sugar off her face without _looking_ like she’s brushing powdered sugar off her face.

Kay pauses and lowers the camera. “Cassian suggested I shoot more candid shots,” Kay says, “Just like yours.” He sounds entirely put off about it. “Besides, she made me do it.” He points over his shoulder, towards Ahsoka.

“You’d have done the same thing,” Ahsoka says, and Jyn’s instinct is to protest. Ahsoka doesn’t know her, after all, so how could she—

But she is _right_ of course. If anyone else had been sharing food with Cassian, she absolutely would have.

And she’s pretty sure she did consent to her image being used, so it’s not like she’s got grounds on _permissions_.

She looks back at Cassian, who still has a little sugar on his nose. _How did that even get there?_ She wonders.

“It’s fine,” she finally says, and Ahsoka smiles. “We should probably get a little bit of a formal shot, too. Just—” she points to Cassian’s nose. “You have a little—” He brushes his nose and misses it. “No, it’s—” Extremely aware of their audience, she reaches out quickly anyways and brushes the offensive powder away. “There.”

“Thanks.”

“Alright, let’s do the formal run down, then,” Jyn says, raising her camera to point it between Ahsoka and Cassian.

But Ahsoka raises her hand. “It’d be weird if I showed up since Kay already has the footage of you two. I’ll sub in tomorrow.”

“But I’m not—”

“You’re a natural,” Ahsoka says.

“That’s not—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ahsoka pats Kay on the shoulder. “Keep covering them. I’ll go wrangle the rest of the kids and make sure Draven’s happy with our schedule. Take it away, Andor.”

“Forget about Kay,” Cassian says too softly for the mic to pick up. “Look. It’s just you and me.”

Jyn hesitates, and Cassian tries another cube. “How do they make it?” he asks, like they’ve just been standing here chatting.

She _knows_ this, of course, she does, and she answers his questions one by one, does her best to pretend there’s no camera, just him and history and recipes and cooking.

They only need a few minutes, but they stretch out like taffy, even with Cassian’s helpful, prompting questions. By the time they finish, the crash of the sugar rush hits her. Suddenly the colors are too bright, the smells too stifling.

She has to get out of here.

Cassian’s voice trails after her. “Jyn—”

#

She doesn’t speak to anyone during the whole trek up the hill to Süleymaniye Mosque. Instead, she powers forward, attacks the climb with more energy than she really has, just to put distance between the rest of their group—their excitement at the bottom of the hill, as they show off their purchases, bulging bags of sweets, spices, nuts, jewelry, scarves, various other souvenirs.

Her feet think they remember the way, and she leads for a few minutes, not really paying attention, not really sure if why she’s moving so quickly towards a place she doesn’t really want to go.

But of course she doesn’t _really_ remember the way, and she’s halfway up a side street when Cassian stops the group to find her.

 _Bloody fantastic_ , she thinks, joining up with the rest of them, falling into step beside Cassian only because he waits for her.

Conversation resumes around her, and she’s too surrounded to tune it out this time.

“So it was a kids’ travel show,” Shara is saying to Ahsoka, who’s snacking on hazelnuts while leading them through the zig-zagging streets.

“I can’t really see Anakin Skywalker working on a kids show,” Kes says. “Let alone on PBS.”

“You can,” Kay says, at the same time Luke mutters, “this is my father you’re talking about.”

Jyn’s fists clench not for any ire towards Kay, but just because she feels imprisoned by conversation and if she could just elbow her way out of the group—

“Cassian has recordings of several episodes,” Kay finishes.

If she thought the noise surrounded her before—the group erupts with amused hollers, “What!” “Nerd!” “Do you have them _here_?” “O-M-G, share!”

“Uh, no, I don’t have them here,” Cassian says.

“It was very educational,” Kay says, “and surprisingly accurate for a children’s show.”

“Thanks for the endorsement, Kay,” Ahsoka says.

“You should thank Cassian,” Kay says, “He spent much more on the related merchandise.”

Jyn looks away from the back blocking her exit to see Ahsoka’s wide grin. “Big fan, huh?”

“I was six years old,” Cassian says defensively. Jyn glances at him, curious, and when he catches her eye, he shrugs. “You know, I’m not ashamed. It’s one of the reasons I went into journalism. I wanted to see the world.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ahsoka says. “I’m actually a really big fan of _your_ show.”

“Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“No, really. Not just saying that.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cassian says.

“It’s true,” Luke says, “She runs a—”

“Hey, Skykid, he doesn’t need to hear about that—”

“No, I’m aware of your recent work,” Cassian says, and Ahsoka coughs on one of her hazelnuts. “Raising awareness about the refugee crisis here.”

“Oh—yes. That. Of course. My job. The reason I’m in Turkey.”

“So I wouldn’t blame you for not knowing the show, I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“Hey, a girl has to destress somehow. And I’m actually on sabbatical right now, anyways.”

“What exactly do you do?” Shara asks.

“She’s an ambassador for the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees,” Cassian explains.

The chorus oohs and aahs: “Whoa.” “Fancy.”

“So you left the kid’s travel show,” Shara says. “And transitioned to doing relief work full time.”

“In a nutshell,” Ahsoka says. And just by happenstance, in her continuing struggle to navigate out of the center of the pack without drawing attention to herself, Jyn happens to be looking at her hands, happens to see Ahsoka crack two nuts together, just like—

“Okay, you _have_ to teach me that trick,” Kes says.

“It takes years of training, my friend,” Ahsoka says. _He used to snack on them_ , Jyn thinks, and she wishes Turkey wasn’t full of so many ghosts. _He’s not dead_ , she reminds herself.

“How’d you decide to switch?”

“I actually started while I was still on the show,” she explains. “We saw so much of the world, and I just…”

“Wanted to do something about it,” Cassian says, and everyone looks at him. Except Jyn, who sees someone else in her head, someone else ranting about helping people, asking her “who did you help today?” when all she wanted—

“Yes! That’s it exactly,” Ahsoka says, before continuing. “Then I had a falling out with the studio, and after that, it was easier to just stay out of the spotlight, and focus on real work helping people.” Her eyes widen. “Not that this isn’t real work…”

“It’s a small thing,” Cassian says, “but if we can just inspire people, show them the rest of the world, the cultures of different countries, we can break down the walls around us.”

“Huh,” Kes says, “I never really thought about it like that.”

The epiphany slows Kes in his tracks; at last, an opening—and Jyn takes it. She takes it like she did when she was sixteen and she couldn’t keep up anymore— so she kept away.

“Whoa, hey—” someone starts.

“I’ll scope out the cafes,” she says quickly, and doesn’t give anyone time to respond.

#

Jyn manages to stay behind the camera during the whole shoot. Even better, she manages to con Kay into shooting the meal—nothing too complex anyways, just a warm bowl of lentil soup that looks and smells delicious, bread, and tea, of course, because no Turkish meal is complete without tea. Instead, she focuses on the wider angle shots, the cafe, the street around them, the mosque itself.

This whole row of cafes faces the wall of Süleymaniye Mosque, and if she hadn’t been there so often before—when she _had_ come, every day, as a kid, eating lunch outside a building that maybe served a religious purpose but _looked_ as grand as a palace—she’d allow herself to savor the uniqueness of the moment. Like the rest of the crew. “Here we are,” she might think, “Just having a casual lunch, practically on the lawn of this nearly five-hundred-year-old building.” If she hadn’t visited so often, back then, exploring the streets while Saw worked, thinking of what she’d tell Mama—of what she _couldn’t_ tell Mama—

“You want to join us for soup?”

She presses pause on the camera, not that she’d been recording anything but a ridiculously long shot of a still subject, a building.

“We’re done shooting,” Ahsoka adds, gesturing back towards the cafe, where the rest of the crew has joined Cassian. “We ordered you a bowl.”

“ _We have to talk about your mother_ ,” Saw had said, halfway through her soup. She’d burnt her tongue on the first taste, but she wouldn’t let him know, and had been pretending to enjoy it.

“Thank you,” she says to Ahsoka. “But I’m not hungry.”

“You sure? It’s good soup,” she says. “You picked a good cafe. I’d hate to see you miss out.”

“I’ve had it.”

Ahsoka remains silent after that, just leans against the wall, stares back at the crew. Several times, Cassian glances back at them, and Jyn looks away, finds something interesting in the street—mostly stray cats. There’s plenty of those, for distractional excuses.

“I’m sorry about the Turkish delight,” Ahsoka finally says. “I thought—Mothma mentioned you’d been influential in shifting the tone of the show, and I’ve seen some of the social media posts, so I thought you and Cassian—well, it was too good a shot to pass up.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Jyn says.

She feels Ahsoka’s stare, like she’s a specimen under a microscope, and she hates it, the idea of being on the other side of any lens, and she’s sorely tempted to return a glare—but Ahsoka’s not wrong, objectively, she’s sure the moment of them sharing sugary candies will play well however it’s presented, even if she could convince them to reduce it to a picture on the Instagram account.

Of course, that’s not really what the problem is.

“Mothma didn’t mention that you’d been here before,” Ahsoka says quietly.

Jyn allows herself to meet Ahsoka’s gaze, but Ahsoka’s turned away now, watching a cat dart through the chairs, beelining for Kay, of all people.

“She wouldn’t have known,” Jyn says. “It didn’t come up.”

“I don’t know,” Ahsoka says casually. “Maybe you could have saved them the trouble of paying a local guide?”

Jyn snorts and shakes her head. “I haven’t been here in years. I was too young to remember it.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

Jyn sighs and puts her camera away, tired of holding it.

“I’ve been to more countries than I can remember,” Ahsoka says. “But there’s only a few places I really can’t bear to return to. Barris, Steela, Plo… The places that remind me of them.”

_Steela?_

“ _Xosad told me you had a sister_ ,” she’d finally countered, setting down her spoon in the empty bowl. She’d never seen an adult look so surprised—and betrayed. And sad. “ _Neither of them are coming back._ ”

“ _So you understand the world?_ ” Saw had said. “ _Do you want to do something about it?_ ”

“Steela Gerrera,” Ahsoka says, and Jyn realizes she’d repeated the name out loud. “A woman who died on one of my first missions. I was so young, I didn’t know—none of us understood how dangerous it was. Her brother—”

“Saw.”

“Yeah, Saw didn’t—wait, do you...”

“He brought me here when mum passed,” Jyn says, not really sure why she feels compelled to share this with someone she’s just met. But understanding dawns in Ahsoka’s eyes. “He raised me.”

“That explains it,” Ahsoka says.

Jyn snorts, glances away. “Why I’m so screwed up?”

“Why you’re so strong.” Jyn opens her mouth—to say what, she doesn’t even know—but Ahsoka continues. “I can imagine what it might have been like. He doesn’t handle grief well.”

“He doesn’t handle grief at all. He never talked about her.” _Just once_ , she thinks, if that even counts at all.

“Can’t imagine he would have.” Ahsoka cocks her head to the side; her dark eyes brighten just slightly. “I suppose he never let you watch my show, either.”

Jyn actually chuckles. “No, no time for television.”

“It’s a real shame, my show was pretty good.”

“Must have been, if Cassian liked it.”

“He’s got good taste,” Ahsoka says. Her humor fades again. “Although maybe not the best self-awareness. I’m pretty sure he’s racking his brain, trying to figure out what he said or did that pissed you off.”

Jyn deflates a little at that, glances back towards Cassian, but his face is blank as he listens to Kay talk. “It’s not—him, exactly.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Ahsoka says, bumping her shoulder into Jyn’s. And Jyn really thinks she does get it. “But maybe you can explain it to him. He’s been a little off. I know we’re done shooting today, but maybe for tomorrow’s sake…”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to him.” _And explain what? That she’s worried about a non-existent relationship with an activist after the stress Saw put her through?_

“Alright, let’s go look at ancient things,” Ahsoka says.

#

Five hours later, she hasn’t talked to him yet—not about anything real, her mother, Saw, her aversion to participating too heavily in overt activism.

But she’s sitting across from him in some late-night cafe, and he doesn’t know how to properly enjoy the kofte.

“Here,” she says, squeezing the lemon over the bulgur meatball and scooping it into a lettuce wrap. He follows her example, and she can tell it’s his favorite food he’s tasted all day. It _is_ good, just the right level of spicy, and even if the texture is somewhat different—sort of like a meatball, sort of grainier—when he opens his eyes, he meets hers with a smile.

After that, their rapport returns, laughing over the messiness of late-night pita wraps, falling apart with every bite, chunks of chicken kebab and tomatoes dropping to their plates. They all finish their food and continue down İstiklal Avenue, experience the Taksim nightlife—as much as there is on a cold February night.

Ahsoka takes them to a rooftop bar, plastic draped over the openings to keep in the warmth, and the crew stakes a claim in a row of seats. Somehow, Jyn and Cassian end up squished together in the corner, huddled for warmth despite the plastic, bottles of Efes collecting on the sticky table in front of them.

They talk about the food, mainly, and the sites; nothing personal, it’s so rarely anything personal, and Jyn wonders how she could have been so open with Ahsoka and not tell Cassian these things—she wants to tell him—but would he understand? What would he think of her? Would he think less that she can’t share in his goals?

Would he stop looking at her like—like he is now, as they leave their seats, leave the crew behind (totally, miraculously unnoticed, everyone too absorbed in their own conversations)? Would he stop standing so close, pressed against her, supporting her as they stumble into the elevator nearly too narrow to hold two people? Would he stop—would he want to—would he lean in and close the distance—should she—

The elevator stops, and neither of them move. The door opens and people yell at them to get out, and she doesn’t register anything until the frozen night air slaps her face.

She wakes up, counts the number of beers she’s had as too few for her to be acting like this, and she navigates their way back to the hotel.

And nothing moves forward.

#

Somewhere along the way, Shara would have enthusiastically declared her delight at the grand buffet laid out before them.

But they are all too tired, their heads too sore, to make any enthusiastic declarations beyond silently diving into their food.

There are all the usuals of a Turkish breakfast, of course, all varieties of: breads, cheeses, and deli meats; there are cucumbers, tomatoes, black and green olives, jams and honey, eggs and sucuk (a dried, spicy beef sausage); several kinds of borek, different folds of phyllo dough filled with spinach, meat or eggs; and even potatoes cut like fries, their texture smooth, soft, fine, with just the right amount of spice.

They demolish the buffet.

And they hit the ground running.

They’re exploring the bulk of Sultahnamet today, the historical district of Istanbul, the ancient seat of Constantinople. They spend the morning shopping at the Grand Bazaar, less fragrant than the spice bazaar but multitudes larger, with so many side hallways off the main that it becomes a maze; they all get lost even if just a little briefly at some point throughout the morning.

Jyn might even purposely lose herself in aisles of scarves and lamps and swords.

Anything to escape the somehow escalated tension between her and Cassian.

They haven’t said a word. Not since the elevator (which is stupid, so stupid, because nothing happened in that elevator and everything before it had gone so well—this is not true, of course, because she’d been floating along the surface of what she’d really needed to say to him, and until she addressed it, nothing could be _right_ …)

After the bazaar (after Jyn has collected some self-indulgent shots of beautifully crafted swords, with gleaming blades and sparkling hilts; after Jyn has purchased at least two scarves; after Jyn has filled her bags with varieties of tea for Bodhi, Chirrut, and Baze), they crowded into some restaurant just off the main square.

In reality they are practically fished off the street by the aggressive vendors that prowl the crowded street, shouting deals in any number of languages as they guess the ethnicity of passersby. A group their size is a real catch.

Draven oversees the ordering, ensuring everyone requests something different and unique that hasn’t been featured yet—lahmacun and pide both make this list, two variations of proclaimed “Turkish” pizza; Jyn opts for the former, savors the thin bread, the ground lamb, the tomatoes; she sprinkles feta over the top and it’s perfect, and for the sake of the show she shares it with Cassian, who also tries the boat-shaped pide to give it a fair comparison. Others order varieties of kebabs, plates piled with pilaf and vegetables, and everyone shares as Ahsoka goes through the orders, sharing the Turkish names for things, how it’s cooked, and Cassian follows with his reviews, his appreciation and praise for the variety of flavors.

She knows lahmacun is more to his taste, but that’s not why she picked it, of course.

But they say very little during the interaction, nothing more than what’s necessary.

The tour of the basilica cistern feels eerie after that, the drips of water echoing in relative silence, for a tourist destination and compared to the noise and free-for-all of lunch.

Jyn prefers the change of pace, or would, normally.

But this is what she knows of the Basilica Cistern: it’s ancient and beautiful and serene, and it’s a reservoir full of memories that never happened, a cavern of _Mama will be so happy when I—_ , and she can’t even look at the medusa head for longer than five seconds before she whirls around, pushes past Cassian— _when did he get there_ —and leaves.

And distantly, softly, echoing, she hears Cassian’s voice following her. “Jyn…”

#

Ahsoka has had enough.

“Ice cream. That’s what you need.”

“No, wait, Ahsoka—”

But Jyn’s protests come too late.

Because Kay’s camera is out, and somehow Kes has produced a camera, and if they let him hold one again, well, someone really must be desperate.

Cassian and Jyn have been set up.

She doesn’t think Cassian really knows what he’s in for, because even though he definitely suspects Ahsoka is up to _something_ , he walks up to the street vendor’s counter— _ice cream! In February! At least the sun is shining today and their bellies are full and they’ve been walking around_ —and he orders two cones.

Bracing herself, Jyn sighs and holds out her hand, and pretends that she expects this transaction to be ordinary.

Thus the show begins.

This is how Turkish ice cream works, Cassian will later explain:

It’s called dondurma, and to make it, they add salep and mastic to the typical ingredients of cream, whipped cream, and sugar. Salep, a flour made from the root of the purple orchid, thickens the mixture; and mastic is a resin that makes it chewy.

This results in ice cream with a tougher texture resistant to melting.

It also makes it sticky.

Turkish street vendors, like the man taunting them both now, hand the customer their cone, dip the metal serving stick into the tub of ice cream, and deliver the glob of ice cream onto the cone.

Except it doesn’t stay.

It sticks to the metal rod.

The teasing could last for a minute, maybe even more, full of all sorts of tricks: the ice cream sticks to the cone this time, except when the vendor pulls the metal rod away, _everything_ goes with it—the cone is lifted right out of the unsuspecting customer’s hands! He flips it around, waves it over the customer’s head, stacks cones inside of cones so when the customer grabs one, they’re left empty handed. He digs into the tub and lifts out a huge mound of ice cream; and the whole time, it never drips, never melts, not a splatter wasted accidentally.

Very often they even dab the ice cream on the customer’s nose or cheeks.

The point is to turn it upside down, to tease, to make the customer laugh in surprise.

And very begrudgingly, it works.

At first, Cassian watches, blank faced, totally caught off guard and, if Jyn can tell at all, not so happy about it. It always happens, it has to happen for the performance to really work: he tries to outsmart the vendor, to reach for the cone, to be faster, to catch it. But the vendor knows the ice cream better, knows how it will stick.

When she was very young, Saw would take her, and smile at how fast she could be, trying to grab the cone.

By the time she actually _was_ fast, she didn’t want to bother anymore.

But she’s on camera, and she plays along, plays the part at first like she remembers.

And Cassian’s watching _her_ , too; they glance at each other as the vendor plays between them, goes back and forth, and at some point it’s so ridiculous, so awkward, that she breaks and laughs.

And that’s precisely when the vendor nails her on the nose with the ice cream.

And Cassian laughs, too.

“Did you know that was going to happen?” he asks later, as they’re _chewing_ their ice cream and standing in line for the Hagia Sophia.

“I didn’t know Ahsoka was going to set us up like that,” she says, “But yeah, I know how Turkish ice cream works.”

He gazes at her thoughtfully after that, and for a brief second she’s afraid he’s going to ask about Saw again, like at the Spice Bazaar.

“Have you ever had Dippin Dots?” he asks.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“You know, the ice cream of the future. It’s something they have in America. Do they not have that here?”

“Never heard of it.”

He tells her the story of cryogenically frozen ice cream, the first time his father bought it for him at an amusement park.

He tells her about growing up, how he tried to learn to cook, when his parents died, when he felt their recipes were the only thing that he had left of them, his only way to know them.

The line moves forward, they enter the church-turned-mosque-turned-museum, a building constructed in 537 AD, a building she has never dared to enter a second time because _this was it_ , this was what Mama always wanted to see; because a building that has survived so much strife, with Christian murals covered over with plaster, with new paint and new tiles covered over to make something new over something broken, has always hit entirely too close.

“This is what they liked,” Cassian says, explaining his parents favorite dishes. “This is what they made together.”

They would not hold hands in public, not while working together, not in this limbo, but—what is she turning into, so sentimental—it _feels_ like he might as well.

He walks her through the twisting passages, up to the high second level, through hallways bereft of flash or style, just ancient stone that may as well be a cave—her heart beats _Mama_ , and Cassian continues:

“Food is history. It’s people. It’s stories parents tell their children in flavors, huddled together in the warmth of the kitchen. Cuisine is culture.”

He’s so beautiful, when he talks like this, animated and flushed and eyes bright, a little quirk of a smile hovering at the corner of his lips.

“A good meal, it’s like this building,” he says, gesturing to a half-uncovered Christian mosaic. “Especially here, in Istanbul, this crossroads of cultures, they all meet in the food. Different layers, different influences. A little mediterranean, some middle eastern. One dish is like an ambassador. We offer a basket of bread, ‘Welcome.’ We make a warm dish, rice and chicken, and say ‘join us.’ ‘It’s okay,’ we promise with a bowl of soup.” He leans down, his voice soft so only she can hear even though the alcove is empty. “I’ll take care of you.”

They’re alone, on the high second story of the Hagia Sophia, and it’s not really warm but she feels so flushed from all the stairs and the incline of the old, dusty corridor.

“Cassian,” she says, equally soft. But it’s too much, it’s too much, and they don’t even have alcohol as an excuse. What is he doing—he’s—

He’s distracting her from all the ghosts.

 _This is it_ , she thinks, _I should just do it, I should just kiss him, coworkers and consequences be damned—_

“Kes is right,” says her cowardly tongue, “you are a nerd.”

His surprised smile strains the corners of his lips, and he looks away, makes a noise like a sigh and a chuckle. “That’s just why I’m here, I guess,” he says. “What I think about—food.”

“I see.”

“What does it mean for you?” he asks, starting out of the alcove and joining the rest of the tourists.

“You should save that kind of thing for the show, you know,” she says instead, catching up with him. “You know, the monologue about food. It’d be good—some good sound bites, in there. You should probably say it again, later…”

“That was for you,” he says, shrugging.

“Escape,” she says, and he looks back at her quizzically. “It’s—what I like about filming. To forget everything else. To just appreciate the present for what it is. Not think about anything external, no problems of the world or my own, to even forget myself a little.”

“Ah,” he says.

“I was eight,” she blurts out again, “and my parents died. And he—just—kept moving, kept focusing on everyone else, everyone else’s problems, and—”

Cassian’s eyes widen and this time he does take her hand, pulls her into another alcove. “It’s okay, Jyn,” he says. “We all cope.”

She closes her eyes and feels arms wrap around her, his chin rest on her head.

It’s both fleeting and lasting; he pulls away and she legitimately has no sense of time, of how long it’s been.

“We should head out,” he says. “I hear Topkapi takes a while.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah.”

He leads her back down the twisting old hallways. “What’s your favorite Turkish meal?”

#

Ahsoka takes them to her friend’s home for dinner.

They take the tram, and then the ferry across the Bosphorus, and then another tram, to a neighborhood on the Asian side of Istanbul; up a hill, down an alley, up a winding staircase because only  a few buildings ever have (cramped) elevators, to an apartment three stories up.

Ahsoka introduces them to Ayse, who welcomes them enthusiastically (“Hoşgeldiniz!” “Hoşbulduk!”) and tours them around her apartment before leading the crew to set up in the kitchen to film her cooking process (so much as she’s willing to share).

“You’re making manti!” Jyn says, stepping into the kitchen to see a large circle of paper-thin dough stretch out over the table, already scored in tiny squares.

“ _We’re_ making manti,” Ayse says, gesturing her to sit. “Come, come, I’ll show you.”

“Oh, I’m on camera,” Jyn says, hefting up her camera as if Ayse can’t already see it, as she’s steered to the chair next to Cassian. Ahsoka and Ayse fill the remaining chairs, as Jyn looks around for help—this can’t be happening again, not a third time, she ought to be filming.

“You know this dish?” Ayse says,

She glances at Cassian, who is clearly feigning surprise. “It’s my favorite,” she says, “I used to have it when I lived here as a kid.”

“So you know what to do, good.”

They compromise: Jyn films the lesson, as Ayse demonstrates how much of the filling (ground lamb, onions, and spices) to take from the bowl and dab on each square, how to fold the square in half, then pinch the two corners together to make a little plus sign. She moves quickly, fingers working under muscle memory, dab, fold, fold, and it takes Ahsoka and Cassian a few tries to get the hang of it, the rhythm, to keep the dough smooth without tearing.

“Okay, good,” Ayse finally says, inspecting their dumplings. “Your turn,” she says to Jyn, as she moves back to the stove to check on a pot of lentil soup.

They make a game out of it, to see who can make the most in the fastest amount of time—just when they think they’re done, Ayse lays out another circle of dough and another bowl of meat and they start over.

But it doesn’t feel like work, not with friends to pass the time. The cameras stop rolling as the process repeats, and most of the crew filters out into the living room to watch some Turkish modeling and fashion competition. Only Luke lingers to help Ayse with various other kitchen duties and to capture a few posts for the social media account.

“Do you always cook manti with a group?” Cassian asks, as they finish the last few dumplings.

“It’s best this way,” Ayse says from the stove, where the water is coming to boil. “Made with friends, family, and love.”

#

Manti is served with garlic yogurt and a mixture of red pepper flakes and butter, served on the side for the consumer to apply to their preference. Jyn brings out her camera again to survey the dinner table, to record the careful pouring of the lentil soup appetizer into each bowl, to capture the dollops of yogurt and spoonfuls of sauce flowing over the mounds of dumplings.

“Afiyet olsun,” Ayse says as they sit. “Bon appetit!”

Cassian tries first, Jyn’s camera trained on him—she couldn’t allow them to prevent her from capturing this moment herself. He grins at her camera across the table as he takes his first spoonful, as he closes his eyes and savors the combination of the spicy sauce, the cooling yogurt, all the flavors mixing on his tongue, and she knows before he speaks, like she always knows, that he loves it.

He explains it perfectly, just how she knows it in her heart, how she had it when she was a kid: the perfect balance of the yogurt and the spice, the hearty warmth, like comfort food, the love of the food evident in its careful preparation.

It’s just like she remembers.

And for the first time, the memories don’t sting.

For dessert, Ayse serves the kunefe, a round of stringy cheese mixed with phyllo dough, honey, and pistachios, along with cups of sahlep, hot milk flavored with honey and cinnamon. It rounds the meal out perfectly, all sweetness and fire, before they depart into the cold February night.

And of course, as a default, there’s always Turkish tea, a standard requirement for any meal.

“Alright,” Draven says, before everyone has even allowed their tea to cool. Draven’s own tulip-shaped glass is empty of course, as he’s downed it steaming hot like nothing burns him. “Time to leave for the airport.”

He’s met with the chorus of groans, a refrain he’s likely used to by now; it rolls off him as he puts his jacket on.

“It’s alright,” Ayse says, “You will love Cappadocia.”

#

A whirlwind later—after pouring down the spiraling staircase of Ayse’s apartment building, piling into the bus, hurrying through security—Jyn settles at the boarding area, choosing a seat slightly separate from the rest of the group, near the massive glass panes overlooking the tarmac.

The airport feels vast and sterile after the coziness of Ayse’s home, a stark contrast to sitting at Cassian’s side. He’s sitting with Draven and Kes now, going over the schedule for tomorrow, and everyone else dozes in their lingering food comas, especially after the rush of getting here.

“So,” Ahsoka says, sinking down in the seat next to her. “Have you been to Cappadocia, too?”

Jyn puts her headphones back in her purse. “No.”

“At last, I can prove my worth.” Jyn has no response for that, so Ahsoka switches gears. “You _are_ good on camera, by the way.”

“Did Luke put you up to this?”

“He didn’t have to,” Ahsoka says. She coughs. “He may have even warned me not to say anything.”

“Hard to believe,” Jyn says.

“He does mean well.” They both look over to Luke, cheerfully, if tiredly, chatting with Shara and sharing pictures from his new phone that Ahsoka helped him buy yesterday after shooting. Jyn thinks she can recognize Instagram’s app.

“Does he mean well with Bodhi?”

“Uh, Bodhi…”

“My flatmate, they’ve been talking online.”

“Oh, the Instagram guy.” Ahsoka shakes her head. “No, I don’t pry into Skywalker love lives, that’s a strict rule of mine. But that’s changing the subject.”

“You’d rather talk about my love life, then? Make it the business of Cassian’s whole fanbase?”

“I didn’t say anything about _that_ ,” Ahsoka says. “I mean—I, uh—why would you think _I’d_ make it the business of…” She clears her throat. “Look, most of the fans like you. They don’t know that much about you, but they like seeing Cassian so happy.”

Jyn snorts. “And you’re so familiar with his fan base…”

“We covered it yesterday, I’m a big fan, I wasn’t just being polite.” She sighs. “You know, it gets _hard_ , working out here, with so many people who have suffered so much. It’s nice during my time off to disconnect, to watch something sort of mindless and happy. To find some kind of distraction, an escape. You understand.”

“Yeah,” Jyn says, most of it coming out with a sigh. “I do.”

“And that’s why I moderate a _Tell Me What You Eat_ chatroom.”

“You _what_?”

“Hey, it’s okay, I already talked to Mothma and Cassian about it,” she says. “So you know, full disclosure.”

“Is this—are you—” She glances back over to Cassian, who meets her gaze and must catch the panic in her eyes, based on his own look of concern. “Is he…?”

“I’m sorry you didn’t know,” Ahsoka says.

She shakes her head at Cassian; she doesn’t want to make a scene, she doesn’t want him to rush over here, which he looks ready to do. She sees him type something into his phone before looking back at the schedule in Draven’s hands.

“You’re not the _jyssian_ culprit, are you?”

“Hell no,” Ahsoka says, laughing. “Sorry that one stuck.” Ahsoka rubs the back of her neck. “Look, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. But the chemistry you two have is hard to come by, and you work really well together. Like, really well. It’s hard to find a co-host like that in this business. Trust me, I know.” She shakes her head, her eyes dark for a second. “I know that’s not your gig, but I also know it pays a lot better than what you’re currently doing. Mothma’s talking next season already, and if you’re interested in staying—well, you may have a few options.”

“Has anyone mentioned this to Cassian yet?”

“As far as I know, Mothma just floated it by me.”

“Do you two also go back then?”

“I’ve got a lot of connections, what can I say?” Ahsoka shrugs. “That’s the business. But yeah, she was close with Luke’s mother.”

“Why’d you leave your show?”

“It’s… complicated.” Ahsoka sighs, and she looks so tired all of a sudden. “A whole shitshow with the producers at my studio. A story for another time. Look, it’s not easy, I won’t pretend it is. It’s also not easy to date a celebrity, regardless of whether you work together or not.”

The intercom beeps. “We’re now ready to begin boarding for flight TK6236. Premier passengers, please report to gate nine now.”

“It’s just something to think about, _if_ the opportunity presents itself.”

#

But she’s already got plenty to think about, as she queues to board the plane, as the plane sits on the tarmac, taxis to the runway, takes off. Her mind can’t _stop_ thinking, and normally she might go for a run or just get up and move, but she’s stuck in economy, the window seat, no less, and her mind is roaring like the engine blocking her view.

“You okay?”

“Oy—hey, Cass.” She looks up to see Cassian settling into the seat next to her as its previous occupant happily rushes forward towards the front of the plane. By instinct, or muscle memory, whatever it is, she scans the cabin for cameras.

“Everyone’s sleeping,” Cassian says quietly.

“You know this kind of thing draws attention…”

“It’s fine, Jyn. Are you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

His elbow touches hers on the armrest.

She takes a deep breath. “Just—exhausted.”

“It’s been a long day.” He pauses. “It’s been a long _trip_.”

“Is it always like this?”

He stares at her, hesitant, searching her face. “Yes,” he finally says. “And also no.”

“That’s very informative.”

“Did you go with—have you been to Cappadocia before?” he asks.

“No.”

He lets out a breath. “So then…”

“It’s a four-thousand-year old settlement there,” she says, looking at the window, as if she could see it already. Which of course she wouldn’t, even if they were there, even if the sun was out. “An underground city, right in the…” Her voice cracks. “The caves.”

“Ah,” he says, she can hear his understanding.

“She used to talk about them,” Jyn says, swallowing. “She went when she was a student, I think… I…”

“I understand.”

“Every day here, it just…”

“Well, we’re almost done. Just one day more.”

“Yeah.”

“Have I ever told you about the time Kay tried to cook chilaquiles…”

“No,” she says, unable to suppress a tired grin.

“We were in college…”

#

They don’t reach their hotel in Cappadocia until midnight, and though they’re told their rooms are set into the side of the hill, they can’t see anything in the dark.

It’s still dark when they wake five hours later, wondering if they got any sleep at all. Like zombies, they shuffle into several shuttles to take them to the launch site. Even with the lingering sleepiness, as they wake with the gradually lightening sky, there’s a whisper of excitement floating between them.

“It’ll be worth it,” Ahsoka promises, her voice low just because it’s still so early. “I promise.”

It’s still pretty dark when the reach the launch site, the sky still a medium blue behind the darker silhouettes of rocky hills. As they huddle together for warmth, they watch each hot air balloon flicker, bright and yellow and warm; they watch the crews lift the large, tilted baskets upright; they watch the balloons rise like a million miniature suns.

“It’s… magic,” Luke says, soft and breathless, as he snaps more pictures than he has in the last two days.

Jyn’s too distracted by the display to notice him take her own picture, but he shows it to her before posting, shows her the orange glow on her face, the reflection of the flames, contrasting with the sky and well—she couldn’t professionally deny him posting that picture (she might even want to use it as a profile picture, to be honest).

The basket is divided into four sections that can hold up to four people, plus the pilot, so their crew takes up most of the balloon. They all climb in: Kay, Shara, Kes, and Wedge in one section, and Jyn, Cassian, Ahsoka, and Luke in another. Draven joins the rest of the crew on the other side of the pilot’s box.

The balloon lifts off as the sun clears the horizon, everyone cheering and clapping.

The lighting couldn’t be better—they call it the golden hour for a reason—and Jyn gets to work, filming Cassian’s face as he takes in the scenery, watches the sky fill with hundreds of balloons of all colors.

It hits her full force, just then: this is her _job_ , to film this beautiful man in this beautiful place, to record this moment of discovery and wonder.

They float over tall pillars of rock known as “fairy chimneys” and the rocky hills of Cappadocia, spotted with caves and homes like the sky is speckled with balloons. Kay films the landscape below and the balloons hovering around them as Jyn films Cassian and Ahsoka.

“It’s like we’ve travelled to another planet,” Cassian says, as he gestures to the rocks below and explains the geology of the fairy chimneys ( _focus on the light on his face_ , she thinks, _and the_ sound _of his voice, not the_ words…)

But she can’t help it—she can’t avoid thinking of Mama— _I just wish she was here, that I could have shared this with her._

Jyn doesn’t really consider herself religious; maybe spiritual, but not practicing by any means.

But just moments after she thinks it, she feels—it’s like a warmth in her chest, near her heart, just below where her crystal necklace rests. She doesn’t hear the words, she feels them, she can’t explain it, it’s just a kind of knowing: _I am, love._

“How was it?” Cassian asks, as soon as they’ve stopped recording and Ahsoka’s stepped away, towards the other side of their box, near the pilot.

“Charming as always,” she says. “Affable. Articulate.”

“No,” he says, “I mean you. Are you doing okay?”

She’s about to say _who wouldn’t be, surrounded by this?_ But he deserves a real answer, so she considers herself for a moment. And she actually _is_ okay. It’s peaceful and breathtaking and so extraordinary, so alien a landscape, that it’s been very easy, for the most part, to forget all the other problems bobbing around in her brain.

“Yeah. I am.”

It’s getting easier and easier to tell his camera smile from his genuine smile, and harder and harder not to resist returning the latter.

#

Another traditional Turkish breakfast—plus some much appreciated champagne—greets them on the ground below. Mistified and content, they savor breakfast, exhaustion forgotten, and speculate on the rest of the day’s adventures.

The shuttles navigate through the hills, winding and weaving towards the entrance to the underground city. Filming remains minimal there; Draven trusts Kay to shoot the historical bits, artifacts and architecture, while Jyn films Cassian, all of it a well-oiled production by this point.

Even Cassian’s games of distraction have become well-practiced, and she’s able, for the most part, to explore the caves with the sort of clinical perspective with which Kay seems to view the entire world.

They explore above ground villages after that, homes carved into the fairy chimneys and the edge of the cliffs—and of course, their hotel, which they can much better appreciate in the daylight. The whole town is like an archaeologist’s playground.

For dinner, they find a traditional Anatolian cafe, enjoy a number of local—and very fresh, it turns out—dishes. When Luke orders chicken, the waiter tells him they are all out at first, but before Luke can find something else on the menu, they seem to change their mind. “Bizarre,” they think, until five minutes later, they spot a chef walk in with a live chicken.

But the true focus of the evening is Cassian’s dish.

Their waiter takes particular delight in serving it: testi kebab, a lamb stew cooked in a clay pot. They bring it out, with much pomp and circumstance, still cooking over a circle of ash and flame. Once the waiter deems it ready, he pulls out a silver mallet and taps all around the sides of the terra cotta, until it pops off cleanly at a seam.

The steaming stew pours out of the pot beautifully, still sizzling, chunks of lamb, onions, carrots, celery, and potatoes delivered onto a bed of rice; and it smells _divine_.

“It cooks for two, two and a half hours,” Cassian explains, as he takes a first bite. He nods as he savors it. “Just as tender as you might expect.”

It turns out testi kebab has been served for thousands of years. When they’ve finished eating, Ahsoka negotiates a tour of the kitchen and the chef teaches Cassian how it’s made: how the ingredients are combined and stuffed into the clay pot via a narrow opening at the top, which is then sealed with dough and tinfoil and left to cook for hours.

They return to the hotel shortly after, satisfied, full, and exhausted as if they’ve been traveling for years, as if they’re returning from a foray back in time, walking among ruins and eating ancient dishes. The day has kept Jyn so busy, she’s hardly had time to think.

She’s thankful for that.

Cassian walks her to her room; she’s thankful for that, too. And the fact that Shara seems to have disappeared somewhere with Kes, for the moment anyways.

They walk in silence, content in quiet companionship. Up the stairs, along the edge of walkways carved into the side of cliffs, stars sparkling in the navy sky above.

“Did you have a good last day in Turkey?” Cassian asks, as they near her door.

“Yeah,” she says. And really, Turkey hasn’t been half so bad as she’d feared. Or even a quarter. It’d started bumpy, but somehow—no, she knows how. _It’s him_ , she thinks, _he makes it so much better_.

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you,” she says, leaning against the door frame. The stars glitter behind his head, points of white light gleaming against the dark and not half as bright as the look in his eyes.

She stands on pivot, balancing on a point, like one of those fairy chimneys. She could—she could give in fully and completely, just lift herself up and close the distance and stop wondering what it might feel like to fall—she’s had so many opportunities, and she keeps resisting. Why? She never seems to think very long about any of her other decisions, why not this?

But in her hesitation, just like clockwork, worries fill her head, rising like balloons full of hot air.

She _feels_ this, all the time, this longing and _hope_ , and every day, she just gets into so, so much more trouble. _Is that really so surprising? Me and trouble?_

This morning, she’d looked out and seen the horizon, clear and not so very far; and she could see all the jagged rocks between here and there.

Filming will end soon.

What happens after?

She goes home to London, and Cassian goes—where? What does he call home?

Say they date, they spend a few months together.

And then he has another season to shoot. And he’s gone for a few months. What happens then? Will she miss him like she misses Bodhi? (Bodhi, who she hasn’t called nearly enough, Bodhi would talk sense into her, wouldn’t he?)

And that’s not even counting award shows, and talk shows. How much time does Cassian ever get for himself?

So what if she stays on another season? (Not as a co-host, she can’t imagine what kind of substance Mothma must have gotten her hands on for that crazy idea; just as a camera operator, that’s her place.) If she takes a more permanent position, she could still hang out with him, still see him.

And then what? Does she continue to deny the hope she knows they both feel floating between them? Do they keep it professional?

No, what is she _thinking_?

She’s been looking at this all wrong, hasn’t she? Waiting for a chance at a beginning when the more likely truth is that this is the only time she’ll ever have.

So she should just do it, before she misses the chance to know, to show him—

She’s going to do it, she’s going to—

“Goodnight, Jyn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She’s waited too long, the moment carried away by an ever forward-moving current.

“Goodnight, Cassian.”

She watches him go, feels as unsteady as she had in that hot air balloon, hovering, bobbing in the wind, moving steadily forward towards a horizon obscured by mountains, ever wondering—

What’s next?

**Author's Note:**

> Turkish Delight: I know it’s a meme, “what’s the deal with Turkish delight?” Look, I like it, it’s sweet and kind of tastes like softer gum drops. 
> 
> Hazelnuts: they’re a huge export, my husband’s family owns a hazelnut farm and his dad and uncles could legit crack hazelnuts with their bare hands. However do not try at home! It’s very difficult if you don’t know how to do it.
> 
> References:  
> Days One & Two (particularly Galata Tower, Galata Bridge, Süleymaniye) are based on my husband's & my trip to Turkey in 2014. Can confirm sea gull pest, though no phones or cameras were lost. Manti experience inspired by the home-cooked meal my husband’s aunt served us. 
> 
> I have sadly never been to Cappadocia; we couldn’t fit it in during our last trip but it’s definitely the top of our list for our next visit. 
> 
> I referred to the vlog show “Flying the Nest” on YouTube regarding the [balık ekmek](https://youtu.be/lfsVLRVwfLA?t=613) (although please note, she refers to the water behind her as the Bosphorus but it's actually the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus is just a liiiitle bit further downstream) and [Cappadocia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RS5r-Bk9ihA). 
> 
> PS: I read the previous installments very quickly (and will now go back and properly comment) but if I accidentally contradicted anything please let me know so I can remedy asap! I don't think I missed anything, but I'm paranoid. so. anyways.
> 
>  
> 
> THANKS FOR READING! Hope you enjoyed! & if you haven't before, please do check out Turkish cuisine, it's fantastic!


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